


Ink, Fresh Grass, and Leather

by ShakeThatCocktail



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Stiles backstory, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Artist Newt, Ficlet, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Jealous Derek, M/M, Making Out, Newtmas but in Beacon Hills, Summer Camp, Underage Drinking, Wonderful Glader lingo, sterek (one-sided)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2167026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakeThatCocktail/pseuds/ShakeThatCocktail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't like seeing Stiles with another guy. <i>Especially</i> when he doesn't know who the guy is</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink, Fresh Grass, and Leather

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, Teen Wolf and Maze Runner fandoms- work with me on this. The kinda jist of this story is as if Newt was in the modern world and friends with Stiles, not Thomas (I put the Newtmas pairing in there so it's kinda Newtmas in aesthetic terms). Please don't be mad at me? Or hit me with a bat? Or back me into the Maze and let the doors close on me? I love both fandoms so much 
> 
> I don't really know where this came from, so just go with it :P
> 
> Enjoy and, as always; kudoses, comments and bookmarks welcome :) xxx

The waitress at the diner was the same waitress who served Derek every time he visited the diner. She was short and round, with curly brown hair that was pulled back in a messy bun on top of her head. Her temples were streaked with grey. Pale horn-rimmed glasses magnified bright blue eyes the crinkled at the corners when she saw him as she smiled. Her uniform dress apron were the diner colours- pink and white- and a name tag calling her out as 'Suzie'. When she took his orders, she'd give him a kind smile and recommended when she thought was best. She sometimes wrote a short joke on the bottom of his bill, just because she'd told him how much like her nephew he looked when smiled. It was hard not to like the woman, and Derek certainly did.

Derek _didn't_ like teenagers with mops of sandy hair that swept into their brown eyes, who wore burnt orange tank shirts and jeans, and who sat across a stain-covered diner table from Stiles. He didn't like teenagers who's scent was wafted over to him by the crappy air-con system, the scents of ink, fresh grass and leather filling his nose. Stiles' face was split in a bright smile as he flicked a curly fry at the other, who shielded himself with his arms as he laughed. The two were completely at ease with each other, sharing a huge plate of fries and looking at each other if there wasn't anyone else in the room. They were seated on the other side of the room, the bar partially obscuring Derek from their view. They'd already been there when Derek arrived, and although Stiles was facing towards the entrance and could've easily spotted him, his entire attention had been focused on the guy in front of him.

Stiles seemed to be completely entranced by the guy; eyes wide, plush bottom lip sometimes dropping as he listened to what the boy had to say. Other times he jetted back into his seat and roared with laughter, the sandy guy doing the exact same, but more gracefully. Derek _hated_ how comfortable they seemed together.

"You keep making that face and it's gonna stick like that," a female voice said, and Derek snapped his eyes away from Stiles guiltily. He looked up and saw Suzie looking down at him, a wry smile on her face and an eyebrow cocked. "And, if it sticks like that, we're gonna lose a lot of our regular customers." The elderly woman looked towards the bar and Derek followed her gaze, where a pretty blonde suddenly found new interest in her slice of cherry pie, cheeks blushing the same colour as the filling. Suzie chuckled softly. "Lemme give you a refill," she said, topping up Derek's slightly scraped white mug. Derek gave her a small smile of thanks, and the woman's face lit up as she went back to her station.

The sounds of a table bumping and laughter floated across to him, and he flicked his gaze over the rim of his mug to where Stiles and his friend were standing up. Derek could now tell that the boy was slightly taller than Stiles, but a little lankier, with the same muscle definition in his arms. The couple didn't even notice Derek as they left, the sandy-haired guy holding the entrance door open for Stiles. The werewolf noticed that Sandy walked with a slight limp in his left leg. Once outside, he saw them embrace through the glass window- Stiles wrapping his arms around the sandy guy's shoulders, while his spindly arms went around Stiles' tapered waist. Both were pulling each other close, and Stiles had his face buried in the crook of Sandy's neck. Derek tried to look away, but he couldn't help but notice that the two were embracing so tightly that they could've passed as lovers to any passer-by. He saw Sandy say something in Stiles' ear, and the brunet jumped away from him, swatting him playfully around the head as he said something multiple times, cheeky grin in place. The grin that was only reserved for his closest of friends, like Scott. That made Derek wonder what the relationship between Stiles and Sandy actual was. He'd never seen him around before, never heard Stiles describe anyone with Sandy's looks. After one last swat, Sandy moved off towards a battered-looking silver Corsa, giving another wave before he slipped into the driver's seat and pulled out of the small parking lot outside. Stiles raised a spindly hand in return, before standing on the pavement outside the diner for a few moments, seeming to just be taking in the early evening air. Derek was about to get up to go talk to him, but at that moment Stiles made his way to Roscoe and slipped into the cab.

Derek slumped into his seat as Stiles' Jeep left his line of sight, taking a long drink from his now-tepid coffee. He felt like he needed some pie. Or ice cream. Maybe both.

\----oOo----

"Your jokes get worse the more you get drunk. You're such a shank," Newt said, his words slurring slightly. Beside him, Stiles giggled drunkenly. The day after meeting in the diner, the two boys were laying side-by-side on Stiles' narrow bed, a near-empty bottle of Jack laying on the pillow above their heads. Stiles' dad had been on the previous night's late shift, meaning he wouldn't be getting home until late this afternoon. With his dad safely out the way for the next six hours, Stiles had introduced Newt to the bottle that he hid under his bed (helping out seniors normally meant they owed him a favour, especially favours only they could get away with). Stiles blew a raspberry, cheeks flushed pink.

"You talk funny when you're drunk," Stiles said, and Newt turned his head on the pillow, scrunching his delicate brow at his friend. "What the heck is a 'shank'? Also, you called me a 'greenie', earlier." Newt snorted, shoulders shifting his body so there was a small amount of space between him and Stiles on the duvet.

"No one should be held accountable for what they do when they're drunk," Newt said, trying to put on a sober voice, but it just came out sounding business-like, and Stiles couldn't help but laugh.

"So if we started making out _right now_ , we wouldn't be responsible for it?" he asked. "We'd be able to blame it on Jack here?" he reached above his head and patted the thick glass bottle above them. Newt nodded, his soft hair scratching at the pillow case. Seconds later found them moaning into each other's mouthes, the taste of Jack and toothpaste mingling. Newt had lifted Stiles' leg so it hooked over his hip, holding him closer as Stiles' weaved his long fingers into his sandy hair. Stiles' lips opened willingly as Newt slashed his tongue against the seam, and his hips canted up slightly when Newt flicked his tongue against his own. It felt nice to have a familiar set of lips on his after a year, the familiar feel of broad hands on his hips. "Who've you been practising on at camp?" Stiles breathed when they both pulled back for air, and Newt scoffed against his smooth jaw.

"No one," he replied. "I miss you back at the camp. Summers aren't the same any more without you." Stiles smiled softly at Newt's confession, and he stroked a hand through his hair. "If you come this summer, we can be cabin leaders. We're old enough now."

Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. "Can you really see me in a position of authority over a group of twenty kids?" he asked sarcastically. Newt gave him a sly grin and pressed a soft kiss to his lips before leaning further forward and whispering in his ear,

"We'll get to share a room?"

"Sign me up," Stiles said hurriedly, before fixing his lips back onto Newt's and continuing to mess up his hair for the next twenty minutes.

"You wanna go out and get Mexican? I think I drove past a place a few streets away," Newt said, and Stiles smiled fondly. He remembered that a drunk Newt was a hungry Newt.

"Sound good to me," he replied, and Newt grinned, kissing him again. In the midst of their second making out session, Stiles' phone began to buzz. The two teenagers ignored it, Stiles only pausing to hide the bottle under his bed, before going back to turning Newt's soft lips a bright pink. When the phone began buzzing with gusto, Newt pulled away, giving Stiles a look.

"You should probably get that," he said, and Stiles pouted, using the puppy face Scott used on him. "If you don't get that, I will not kiss you until next summer. And remember- I'm here for another two days." Stiles immediately scrambled for his phone, half falling onto the floor with only Newt holding him up onto the bed. His thin fingers were dug into the front of Stiles' shirt, pulling him up and close once Stiles had his phone. The brunet's shoulders sagged and he let out a sigh.

"I can't get Mexican with you. Scotty just texted me. We made plans a few days ago for tonight and I-I-I completely forgot about them," Stiles said, frowning down at his phone. Newt just lent his head on his broad shoulder. He'd never met Scott, but from what he'd been told he could've well been Stiles' brother-from-another-mother.

"It's ok," he said, rubbing the hand that'd been bunched in his t-shirt up and down his abdomen, feeling the light definition of the muscles there beneath the fabric. "We'll go out later." Stiles sighed and rested his head on Newt's.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you." He felt his friend's jaw move against his shoulder as he smiled, and Newt's chest seemed to vibrate against his arm as a purr built up in it.

"Yes, you will," he replied, right against Stiles' ear, and Stiles' mind short-circuited when the words seemed to come out like a growl.

\----oOo----

"Batman's here!" Erica yelled into the loft, as she opened the sliding door to let Stiles in for the pack meeting. The brunet fist-pumped her as he walked past her, settling himself down onto one of the sofas in Derek's loft. Lydia and Scott were already there- Scott sitting at the other end of the sofa, and Lydia perched on the end of Derek's bed. Derek was currently nowhere in sight. Erica immediately flopped down onto the sofa between them, cuddling up to Stiles. The pair had grown close between the frequent attacks on their lives, and had bonded over Erica's closet nerdiness. The brunet raised an eyebrow when the blonde were started sniffing him in a pronounced way.

"Did I forget to wear deodorant?" he asked, and Erica just shook her head, continuing to sniff Stiles. Scott looked at him in alarm. "Erica, you know I love you and accept you for everything you are and what it comes with, including the heightened senses, but does that really mean you have to use them on me?" Erica looked up and gave him a puzzled glare from beneath thick lashes.

"Why do you smell like Jack and paint?" she asked, taking another sniff. "And ink. I can smell ink on you."

"Newt back in town for a while?" Lydia asked from where she was, pausing filing her nails with an emery board. Stiles nodded once and ran a hand over the back of his head, where Newt's fingers had been digging in not more than an hour before.

"Who's Newt?" Erica demanded, sitting up as if a steel rod had suddenly been inserted into her spine. Scott raised an eyebrow at Stiles. He knew about Newt, but he'd never actually met him. Stiles had said he'd wanted to keep some of his friends in a fairly normal part of his life, like the camp.

"An old friend of Stiles'," Lydia said, looking over at Stiles through her lashes without raising her head, a wry little smile on her lips. Stiles gave the redhead a warning look, but immediately wiped it off his face when Erica turned around to look at him. "Stiles used to go to summer camp, and he made a friend. A very _special_ friend." Scott dropped his head onto his chest when Erica's eyes visibly brightened in glee. Stiles made no attempt to hide his flaming cheeks or pursed-thin mouth.

"No..." she breathed, and Stiles went to gnawing feverishly on his thumb knuckle. "My, my, Batman! That doesn't seem like you at all," she teased, and Stiles cuffed over the back of the head with his gnawed hand. Erica just growled playfully in response.

"Newt likes to visit every now and then. Normally to persuade Stiles into going back to the camp, or just catch up, or just...other things." Lydia grinned wickedly, and Erica cackled, leaning back against Stiles, who futilely tried to push her off of him.

"What does 'other things' mean, Stiles? Won't you tell your best friend?" Erica asked, sickly sweet, batting her long lashes up at him in an exaggerated fashion. Stiles snorted.

"My best friend," he said, making air quotes around 'best friend', "is sitting quietly at the other end of this sofa being a nice person and minding his own business." Scott smiled benignly at Stiles as he picked at his cuticles. "Lydia, who people tend to mistake for my best friend, won't shut up about stuff she knows far too much about and- Lydia, how _do_ you know so much about Newt?"

Lydia smirked prettily. "Drunk Stiles is more talkative than sober Stiles," was all she said, and Stiles groaned, head falling back over the head of the sofa.

"I'm such a shuckface," he mumbled, and Erica's brow furrowed.

\----oOo----

"How was Scott?" Newt asked from the sofa in the Stilinski living room, head tilting back over the back of the sofa so he could see Stiles. Stiles smiled at him as he pocketed his house keys, dipping to snatch a quick kiss from Newt's slack lips before flopping onto the sofa beside him.

"He's good," he answer, attention drawn to the sketchbook open on Newt's knee. In the centre of the page was a half-finished pencil portrait of a young man with impressively-shaped eyebrows, a furrow in his brow, and a downwards turn to his lips. Stiles smirked, amused. "How's Gally doing, anyway?" he asked. Newt's nose scrunched up, and Stiles found it hard not to think the expression was adorable.

"Still eating out the house, still thinking he's better than me." Newt replied, tone irked, and Stiles wrapped around his arm around Newt's shoulder comfortingly. As step-relationships were, Newt and Gally's was definitely the worst Stiles had ever heard of.

"Then why do you draw him?" he asked, and Newt shrugged, pencil scratching on the paper as he drew in Gally's broad shoulder, the wrinkles in the fabric, the ridges of the seams.

"He's got a nice face," was all he replied, and Stiles scoffed, burying his face in Newt's pale neck and kissing it softly. The artist hummed contentedly, tilting his head and baring a little more of his skin from underneath the collar of the plaid shirt he'd found over the back of Stiles' desk chair.

"You're wearing my shirt," Stiles commented between kisses to Newt's jaw and earlobe, and Newt nodded, eyes closed and drawing hand slack, the pencil perilously close to rolling from his spindly fingers. "That's all kindsa hot." A nip to his Adam's apple had Newt groaning and pushing the sketchbook off his legs, rolling quickly so he's straddling Stiles' lap, fisting his hands into his hair and kissing him as if they hadn't touched in years, tugging every now and then to move him. Newt could feel him smiling smugly beneath his own lips, and he pulled off, nipping at Stiles' plump bottom lip when he whined at the separation, hands tugging a little harder so all of Stiles' pale neck was exposed and his mouth hung open slightly.

"Ready to make it up to me?" Newt asked, voice gravelly, and he watched Stiles' eyes match his own as they turned dark.

\----oOo----

The purr of the Camaro's engine was cut off when Derek pulled up outside Stiles' house, pausing only for a moment to tap his fingers on his steering wheel before getting out. Seeing the Sheriff's cruiser in the driveway, he decided to heed what the man had said and come in through the door, rather than Stiles' bedroom window. The door was already unlocked, so all Derek had to do was push it and walk cautiously into the kitchen, where the figure of Sheriff Stilinski had his back to him, and Derek didn't need to look around him to see he was loading up a sandwich with cheese and salami, the slices of bread no buttered with the low-cholestrol substitute Stiles made him eat, but rather proper butter they used occasionally when cooking.

"Stiles is gonna kill you if he sees you eating that," Derek commented, and the Sheriff whirled around, guilt etched in the lines of his weathered face. Derek raised an eyebrow, gesturing that the Sheriff knew better than that.

"He's not going to see me eating it, and you're not going to tell him Hale, or I'll find some reason to arrest you," the older man replied, and Derek held his hands up in surrender. The Sheriff hooded slowly, taking a bite of the sandwich. "Wise choice, son. Stiles is upstairs," he said, turning his back. Derek nodded back and made his way up their stairs, the faint scent of ink, fresh grass and leather tickling his nose. The werewolf brushed it away as sense memory. As usual, he didn't bother to knock; just pushing the door open and suddenly being hit by the stench of teenage arousal, sweat, and a whole myriad of things that made up the scent of the two boys on Stiles' bed. He recognised Sandy, his face pressed into Stiles' neck, where his teeth and lips were marking the skin. He was straddling Stiles' abdomen, hunched over in an uncomfortable position, the arm not supporting him beside the brunet beneath him's head reached behind him and firmly cupping Stiles' tented crotch. Every now and then, the hand would flex, and Stiles would let out a whimper or a groan, baring his neck, and Sandy would say something, words muffled by skin, but Derek could probably guess it was praise of some sort. The sight of Stiles' hands- one buried in Sandy's hair, and the other underneath the denim of his dark jeans- was the last straw, and Derek backed out of the room, bumping into the dresser beside the door before slamming the wood behind him. Both of the boys jolted and ceased their actions, but not in enough time to see who it was who'd startled them.

\----oOo----

"Derek! Derek, hey! Calm down, Derek!" Erica kept repeating, standing beside Derek as he landed punch after punch at the concrete wall of his loft, knuckles splitting and bleeding and then immediately reheating, the pain not hang enough time to register. The concrete was speckled with scarlet smears. "Derek!" she yelled, and Derek turned to her, hands ceasing their movement, meeting her own shocked eyes with his own filled with confused anger. He was breathing hard, and the collar and sleeves of his grey t-shirt were drenched in sweat. A few feet away, Lydia and Scott exchanged worried looks. "What the hell is wrong with you?" the blonde asked, taking Derek's hands in hers and watching the skin stitch itself back together.

"I-I-I-I....er, I-I s-saw-w er..." Derek tried to say, but he felt like his tongue was heavy and his brain was dead. In his head, he tried to scream, but his vocal chords were stuck together. "I-I sa-aw S-Stiles a-and this-this g-guy and t-they-"

Lydia's face softened when she realised what Derek was trying to say. Everyone in the Pack was aware of Derek's Chrysler-Builidng-sized crush on Stiles'...except Stiles himself. "You saw Newt," she said, softly and simply. Derek looked at her, face devoid of all its usual sharp angles and he furrowed his brow. "Newt and Stiles go way back to when Stiles used to go to summer camp. You could say there's something special between them that only a few of us knew about."

"Stiles hardly sees Newt these days," Scott added. "He lives up in Chicago and drives down here every now and then to visit. Just to see Stiles. Stiles doesn't tell us about him 'cause Newt's something he wants to keep normal; a reminder what it was like before we all got mixed up in this and we nearly died every weekend. Even I've never met him." The three teenagers were all quiet as they watched Derek, the werewolf's face impassive, but dark at the same time. Erica reached out a hand and rubbed it against Derek's huge bicep.

"You ok, Der?" she asked, a sad little smile on her face. Derek's face seemed to pinch and wince, before he asked,

"What kinda name is 'Newt'?!"

**Author's Note:**

> So I hope you enjoyed reading this! I had a lot of fun writing up this idea
> 
> Don't forget to leave a kudos, comment or bookmark! :) xxx


End file.
